


Flirting, Miranda Priestly Style

by teenybirdy



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Miranda Cannot Flirt, Pre Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22478227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenybirdy/pseuds/teenybirdy
Summary: I don't know how to flirt, so I'll stare at you until you marry me.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly & Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs, Mirandy - Relationship
Comments: 27
Kudos: 424
Collections: 5sk





	Flirting, Miranda Priestly Style

**Author's Note:**

> So I prompted myself...again. It's probably not my best work, but please feel free to let me know what you think. Your comments feed my muse.

Andréa left me on that fateful day and yet she is somehow always around, offering me her brief but sunny smiles, her eyes filled with the warmth of her affection.

Not only do I see her navigating foot traffic on my trips across Manhattan in my Towncar, but for some reason, her editor deems the almost nine months working for me means she is the perfect fit to cover fashion and lifestyle pages, in between her hard-hitting articles on social injustices, in the city we both call home.

Surprisingly, I have found myself enjoying her words. The events we find ourselves are often vastly boring but a necessity for me due to my position, and yet she has this magical ability to allow the world to view them through her eyes. It seems she finds the same humour in the pomp and excesses as I secretly do.

More and more often as the months have passed, I have found myself unable to tear my eyes away from her as she circles the edges of the room, careful not to place herself in my pat. And honestly, I still do not quite know how I will react if she finally finds the courage to face me properly.

As my eyes linger over the delectable curves covered in increasingly-fashionable clothing, Nigel offers me knowing looks as he follows my gaze. He always greets Andréa, with kisses to her cheeks and warm embraces while making sure I am watching and offering me self-satisfied smirks.

I tell myself I am not jealous of their easy friendship, shown through this apparent affection. I am not jealous, I just wish I could offer her the same casual affection. I grow increasingly impatient when she does not seek me out.

I kept the note she left me after the Paris debacle. The apology and explanation behind her rapid disappearance have been read multiple times in the past year and I find myself reading it again when I return from events where her bright smile has once again disarmed me.

The words of thanks provided have been a balm to my battered soul at times, especially when things with Stephen turned even uglier before the divorce was finalised and he left my life without anything to show for our five-year marriage.

Her thanks for the opportunities provided are genuinely heartfelt and I cannot but believe the truth of them. Her explanation, that she felt she felt she had little to offer me as my assistant still shocks me, although I know it to be her truth. As my assistant, I would never have let myself see her for the person she is.

The way she pulls me in, even after all this time, is no longer surprising. I have always found her quite intriguing. Her growing confidence is certainly something I can admire, albeit from a distance.

Andréa has flourished away from Runway, away from me and I am curious about the woman she is becoming. I know her reputation in the publishing world is rising and over the last three months, there have been multiple offers of employment from various publications, all of which she has politely declined. She is rising through the ranks at the Mirror at an unprecedented rate, and this in itself is a true indication of her ambition and determination. The editor of the New York Mirror is cocky about his acquisition of Andréa and I truly want to wipe that smugness from his face.

What I want to know is why she still insists on writing about fashion and lifestyle when it is clear her true passion lies in investigative journalism? She excels in this field and it wouldn't surprise me if she gains further accolades from her work.

Surely by now, she is in a position to insist on having some lowly minion cover these events to save her the bother?

I watch her intently as she becomes more daring at these almost weekly events and circles the upper echelons of our world while still dodging me. She mingles with CEO's, designers, editors, other writers and photographers with ease, her laughter ringing out often as she coaxes responses from them with apparent ease. She begins to be a firm favourite, her genuine spirit and empathy have people flocking to her.

I can't help but stare at her tonight, as she flits through the room in a crimson Carolina Herrera sheath. My eyes laser focussed on the back of her head, willing her to turn and look at me. I know she is aware of my eyes on her and she fights the natural urge to turn and meet my eye. It is only Emily's poorly hidden huff of displeasure that has me tearing my eyes away and I find myself glaring balefully at her.

"Leave me." I wave her away airily and hear the clack of her heels as she rushes away without a word. Turning my eyes back to where Andréa was stood, I find some insipid blonde. My eyes skirt the room and I see her stepping out onto the balcony, no doubt to get some air.

I square my shoulders as I decide to follow, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. I step onto the balcony and sip my drink slowly while I try to gather my wits.

The brunette keeps her back to me but her shoulders tense as she senses my presence. My eyes trail over her slowly, needing to devour her now she is so close with no means of escape.

I know she feels my intense gaze on her and her words prove it. "Good evening, Miranda."

I hear the smile in her voice and step beside her, offering the second glass. When she takes it out fingers brush and I feel an unexpected current pass between us from the slight touch.

She eyes me carefully and I am sure she can see my longing and desire before she turns away.

"Andréa," I whisper her name. I have not let it slip from my lips since shortly after my return from Paris without her when I accidentally called out for her only to be met with a wall of silence. "It is lovely to see you again," I admit, leaning against the railing.

Andréa is caught off guard by my words but recovers quickly. "You look stunning tonight, Miranda," Andréa states softly, sipping from her glass. Her nose crinkles adorably as the bubbles tickle.

I bow my head, feeling the blush rising over my neck and along my cheeks. "You look like you need a solid nights sleep," I advise. I exhale and try to amend the awkwardness of the statement. "Being a reporter must keep you busy and yet you never fail to attend one of these events. Why?"

Andréa shrugs. "So I can see you." The admission is quiet, a low whisper whipped away on the evening breeze. "So I can feel your eyes on me once again."

I spin around, leaning my elbows against the balcony rail behind me. My face turns towards the brave young woman beside me. "Oh." I don't know what else to say. Hope roars through me.

"Why do you watch me, Miranda?" Andréa looks like she wants to slap herself for asking me such a thing. It would be comical in any other circumstances.

I love the way her eyes dance and sparkle in the low light cast by the wall sconces at either side of the double doors behind us. They are beautiful and I ache to tell her so. "You have huge pupils." This is certainly not my best moment and her eyes fall shut as her hair whips around when a gust of wind cuts through us. My traitorous hand rises unconsciously to sweep it behind her ear. "I don't know how to flirt," I admit.

Andréa opens her eyes and laughs, a low, throaty chuckle. "Always so enigmatic." She mutters. Her smile is wide, taking the sting from the words. She gazes down at me, searching for further answers.

I thought I may end up eviscerating her upon being this close to her. To cut her down for leaving me in Paris, for making me miss her. Instead, she leaves me wanting to be wrapped up in her innate warmth and gentleness.

"I'm afraid I must admit I still don't quite understand what you mean." Andréa shrugs her shoulders, her confusion clear.

"Don't you?" I ask softly. "Why do you think I pushed you away in Paris?" I inquire.

"Because you were hurting?" The question is subtle but it was there.

"I was scared that once you saw my true self, you would realise how pathetic I truly am. I did not want to see your eventual disdain. So I said you were like me, knowing you would be surprised and perhaps a little disgusted, after all, you had just seen first hand what I was capable of to get what I want." I answer her question. "You were lost in Paris, Andréa. I can admit I noticed and I was aware you had certain things going on in your personal life but I couldn't allow myself to be affected by it, by you. Not then, not at that moment when I was at my most vulnerable."

"I lost a lot of things," Andréa admitted. "But, I wasn't disgusted by what you said. I found the comparison rather complementary."

I am surprised. If she was not disgusted, why did she leave me? "Then why?" My tone is imperious, demanding answers.

"Why do you stare at me?" Andréa smirks.

I hate it when someone answers a question with a question. It is infuriating. This is why no one dares to question me at Runway.

I will not admit I like her more than I ought to. That is my secret to keep close until I am certain of her feelings. I have told her I cannot flirt, what more does she need to know? I should not have to explain that if I'm extra sarcastic it probably means I'm flirting or annoyed and it's virtually impossible to figure out which?

Does she not realise that all I am capable of is staring longingly into her eyes like a socially challenged, lovesick puppy? Like Caroline looks at that boy in her class, Callum or Cameron, whatever. Why can't she read this as she read every other whim of mine when she was my assistant?

I hold her gaze as I hold my internal debate but catch a flash of something in her eyes. Something that looks a lot like longing and fear. I suddenly understand she is scared of making a move.

She fears my rejection. I am amazed by the realisation. As if I could ever dismiss her again.

I remember Nigel's words from years before when he realised how awkward I was in the face of someone I was attracted to. _"Just make eye contact, but don't_ _stare, it's creepy."_ Well, I had failed at that tonight. _"Smile and offer light touches."_ His eyes had twinkled with delight. _"And if that fails, just be your usual mysterious self."_

I am fifty years old. Why is this still so hard?

I had hoped she would be brave so that I did not have to be. Alas, it seems I am the one who must dig deep for courage, failing that, this thing between us will come to naught.

Stepping close, I brush the hair from her face once more and keep eye contact. I can do this. "I am not that enigmatic if you look close enough."

Andréa shakes her head and my hand drops as she looks away. I try to get her attention, forgetting I have the champagne glass in my hand and watch in horror as the drink sloshes over the rim of the glass to coat the side of Andréa's head.

This night is just getting better and better. There's simply no coming back from this horrendous moment. Mortified, my eyes fall closed until her loud boisterous laughter has them blazing open again.

I watch as she wipes the dripping liquid away with her free hands and faces me. "Wow, you know if you wanted me wet, I can think of a few better ways."

My mouth drops open and I cannot even envision how to respond to such a suggestive comment. If it was anyone else I swear I would have a quick-witted and caustic response for her, but Andréa is different in all ways. With her, I have no option but to fumble my way through the moment. I need to apologise. "I...I...Andréa..."

She continues to chuckle as she places her glass of champagne on the balcony ledge and rifles through her purse. She finds a tissue and dabs at her face and hair before using it to dry her hands and tossing it back in her purse. "I suppose I deserve a drink in the face after everything last year."

The laughter stops and an uneasy silence falls between us. I have still not managed to apologise. I can't seem to find the words. I want to cry, but can't. I can't show that weakness. am Miranda Priestly for Christ sake.

No, that is not true. With Andréa, I am simply Miranda. With her, I am closer to the Miriam I left behind all those years ago when I changed my name and worked my fingers to the bone to become the best.

I try to formulate words and as I struggle Andréa turns to walk away. I reach out for her, my hand clutching at her fingertips. "Wait." I implore. "Please." She stalls and turns surprised eyes upon me. "You asked me a question. Ask me again."

She turns back to me. "No one asks you stuff." Andréa reminds me with a small grin.

Trust her to use that abhorrent word. "Ask me, Andréa," I demand.

Andréa sighs. "Okay. Why do you stare at me?" She asks hesitantly. It now feels like she doesn't truly want to know.

I wrack my brain for something smooth to say, and the words trickle out of my mouth without any conscious thought to how it will sound. "I don't know how to flirt, so I'll stare at you until you marry me."

"Marry you?" Andréa squeaks out the question.

I sigh and roll my eyes. "That sounded much better in my head," I explain.

Andréa laughs loudly again and I can see the amusement flashing dangerously in her eyes. "So, is this flirting, Miranda Priestly style?" I smile softly at her and nod, needing her to see that I am not taking myself at all seriously right now. How can I when he eyes have softened with so much love? She looks at me in a way that makes me feel as if I have never been seen before. She shakes her head, her wide, dimpled smile making my breath catch. "What am I going to do with you, Miranda Priestly?" Her tone is teasing and her warmth surrounds me as she steps even closer.

"You could start by allowing me to take you out to dinner," I state smoothly.

"What about the twins?" Andréa asks. It is not surprising that she has thought of them, she always did.

"They are with their father this weekend," I tell her.

"And does dinner with you mean I have to forgo dessert?" Andréa teases, her fingers stroking along my jaw lightly.

I lick my lips. "If you're lucky, I shall be desert." I am tired of trying to hold her at arm's length.

I am single, and I know she is too. Why fight this?

Oh, who am I kidding? There was never any fight. I have belonged to this woman since before Paris. This year apart has simply increased my desire for her presence.

Andréa's thumb trails over my lips and I pull it into my mouth teasingly, somehow hiding my smirk as she gasps and pulls it from my mouth quickly only to bend slightly and press her beautifully full lips against mine, pulling me against her and breathing new life into me. Finally breaking for air, I offer Andréa a bright smile of my own.

"So, you, me and food?" She asks me.

'I would like that, yes." I admit shyly.

"Me too," Andréa states.

"I suppose the food part is appealing," I state ducking my head.

"No," Andréa lifts my chin and I see the determination in her eyes, urging me to believe her. "The you part is." She presses another kiss against my lips softly.

"Acceptable." I murmur against her lips before pulling away and taking her hand to lead her back into that room. "Come along, darling." I urge. "I am suddenly famished."

As we step into the room hand-in-hand, the first eyes I notice on us belong to Nigel and his smile is wide. I offer him a small nod as we pass him and he snatches the almost empty glass from my hand. Emily hands me my wrap and clutch and tells me Roy is waiting. I sweep Andréa from the building, my hand resting on her lower back, not caring about the whispers that follow us.


End file.
